


You Used To Knock On My Door

by alexandredumas_eatyourheartout



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Damian will drink his Tim Drake respect juice, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Nightmares, Or so help me, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Sharing a Bed, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Trouble Sleeping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandredumas_eatyourheartout/pseuds/alexandredumas_eatyourheartout
Summary: Tim opened his eyes.He glanced at the clock on his nightstand, neon-red letters glaring at him.2:30 a.m.The nightmare had not been as bad. Instead of waking up in a cold sweat, hands clammy and breaths uneven, he just… woke up.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 6
Kudos: 90





	You Used To Knock On My Door

**Author's Note:**

> I have become far too caught up with this thing called life. I swear to god, this is hardly angst.

Tim opened his eyes. 

The neon red digits on his clock glared at him accusingly from across the room.

_2:30 A.M._

This nightmare had not been as bad. Instead of shooting upright in a cold sweat, hands clammy and breaths uneven, he just… woke up. Just like that. Sleep still lingered in his bones as he lurched forward. He was still not fully capable of controlling his body. His limbs _still_ refused to wake up. He rubbed his eyes, before letting his gaze linger on nothing in particular.

He dragged himself out of his bed. His body still hated being vertical. Tim tugged the blanket off his bed and wrapped himself in it like a burrito. 

Even though his body was fuzzy, it still knew the steps to Dick's old bedroom. He had discovered it ages ago while roaming the manor when nightmares wouldn’t let him rest.

He took refuge in the quietness of the room and fell into a peaceful sleep. Sleep was precious— it was something he only got once in a while. There was something about the room. Something about the comfort of it having once belonged to the first Robin. Dick Grayson. His _brother_.

Even if Alfred changed out the sheets every other Monday— Tim had learned this the hard way—it still smelled like him. 

Like _home_. 

He crept through the hallways as quietly as he could. Tim knew Alfred was prone to roaming the manor at strange times. He wasn't the only one unable to sleep at times.

_He made it._

Tim turned the doorknob with a gentle hand. He opened the door slowly and squeezed in before it could creak, then swiftly closed it behind him. He tiptoed around the room and accidentally ran into the desk. It had been the corner. The impact earned a muffled grunt of pain. He then found the nightstand and reached for the mattress.

Escape there _wasn't_ any mattress. 

There was warm flesh. When Tim had realized there was _a person_ in the room, it was far too late. His wrist was gripped tightly, then was twisted downward at an angle painful enough to make him freeze.

Tim yelped in shock. His body froze to comply with the pain in his shoulder. As soon as he did so, his wrist was released. There was the sound of a muffled voice from beneath the covers.

_“Timmy?”_

A moment passed. The lamp turned on, and Tim was staring into _Dick's_ eyes.

There were a few tears in his eyes— _from being startled?_ Dick glanced down at his wrist. It was red from the rough grip. His handprint was pressed into Tim’s pale skin.

“Oh, Timmy,” Dick murmured and forced himself into a sitting position. His body was still recuperating from being roughly jolted out of sleep.

Tim buried his face in his blanket. “Did I wake you up? I’m really, _really_ sorry, I just thought the room was empty and I— I wasn't trying to steal your room —I’m sorry—”

“Hush.” Dick brushed his hand over Tim's cheek before he took his injured wrist and brought it to his lips. “M’sorry.”

Tim sniffled. “S’okay. I can go now,” he added hastily “I can go to my room, again I’m really sorry—”

“ _Tim_.” Dick’s voice was exhausted but not upset. “S’okay, baby-bird.”

Tim squeezed his eyes shut. “Okay.”

Dick scooted back. “Wanna join me?” The offer alone was enough to make his eyes shoot open. 

Hesitation. 

Dick reached to offer a reassuring pat on the head but missed his mark. He ended up patting the mattress instead. “Jus’ get ‘n here.” Dick grasped at the air before he finally found a hold of his shirt.

Tim felt like a kitten being dragged by the scruff of its neck as Dick easily hoisted him onto the bed. After he had tucked him under the covers, he lazily ran a hand through Tim's hair before resting it beneath his head.

A moment of silence passed, and Tim thought Dick had fallen back asleep. He was corrected, “So, why’re you wake’?”

Tim shrank into himself a little, and he was barely able to get words out. Once he did, it took a moment to piece together his quiet mumbles.

“Nightmare?” Dick murmured and pulled the young boy into his arms.

“I didn't mean it,” he whispered. Dick didn't quite understand, but he didn't question it.

“I know,” he breathed and pressed a firm kiss to the top of his head. He didn't stop reminding him ‘til sleep had finally pulled them both under.

* * *

Tim was wide awake once more, but this time it was morning at last. The smell of bacon wafted through the manor. He tried to wiggle out of Dicks grip but failed. Once. Twice.

Dick made a noise as his eyes gradually opened. “Mmh, Tim?”

“Alfred made breakfast,” Tim said seriously. “We gotta go before Bruce eats all the bacon.”

Dick huffed. It sounded amused. He just flopped back onto the pillow with a loud whine. “It's too early.”

Tim nudged him. “Move your arm.” He pushed at it, but Dick just tightened his grip. His breath danced across Tim’s neck.

“No, s’ too warm,” Dick mumbled and began dozing off again.

Tim mustered all his strength (which wasn’t much, Dick had fallen asleep again) and pushed his brother's arm off him. Faintly, Dick grabbed at the empty space as Tim rolled off the bed.

“Tim,” Dick whined. “Are you really gonna leave me?”

“Alfred made pancakes too,” Tim told him matter-of-factly. _That_ got a reaction out of his older brother. 

He shot up and stumbled to tug his pants on. “Hold up— _Timmy_ —”

As Tim made his way down the hall he heard a loud thud. That was closely followed by a string of curses that Tim had heard Bruce say once or twice in his more frustrating moments. Before heading to the kitchen, he made a detour to his restroom and turned on the tap. Then he shoved his hands into the sink to wash away the morning weakness. 

He gasped and bit back a hiss at the temperature. _Cold water. Very cold water._

Tim reached for his toothbrush and scrubbed away at his morning breath. His eyes landed on his wrist in the mirror. A faint pink still marred his skin. His lips turned down. 

_He didn't mean it._

It still hurt anyway.

Could his eleven-year-old heart help the soreness it held— that his own brother was so quick to defend himself? _That really said something, didn’t it?_ Did Dick get nightmares too? And if he did, was that why he grabbed him? Was he afraid?

_No. Dick is brave._

_Brave_.

Years later, Tim would laugh at himself. His childlike perception had left him blind in the dark. He had almost missed it.

  
  


* * *

Cold.

His body was frigid and raw. The copper scent of blood invading his nose. He looks down and finds that the wound in his side— when did _that_ happen? — was _bleeding_. 

“Ouch,” he said to no one in particular. 

His senses are groggy as he sat up and hunted for a jar of vaseline on his nightstand, and then some gauze. 

The only light was from the dull moonlight that had made it through the crack of his curtains. It hardly offered any assistance as he fumbled for the light switch.

The dim glow of the bedside lamp, however, was all that Tim needed. He racked his thoughts, and eventually (faintly) recalled _exactly_ how he had received the injury.

_“Robin—”_

_A clean slice. Then pain blossoming through his side. Blurry vision._

Tim exhaled to only finally realize how deprived his lungs had been.

_How long had he been holding his breath?_

The events and causation of the wound itself were still a mystery to him, but after he had applied a gracious amount of vaseline, the bleeding stopped. 

Tim's mind, on the other hand, did not. The only reason he had woken up to find himself bleeding and wounded was that he had been having a very not-fun nightmare. It wasn't an old one, but each time his mind replayed it, it was more harrowing than the last.

Once again, his alarm clock glared at him again. Its red letters screamed at him to go to bed.

“You try being me,” he grumbled to the clock as his shoulders sagged.

**Author's Note:**

> No Idea how long this will be. Bear with me.


End file.
